


Queer Didacticism

by Bitterblue



Category: Monster Blood Tattoo series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-11 13:13:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/112779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitterblue/pseuds/Bitterblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rossamünd Bookchild has an awful lot to learn about being a factotum.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queer Didacticism

Queer Didacticism

** Debacle ** , _a  – _ _ (adj.) _ ** 1 ** **.** _  The description most commonly applied to any attempt at replicating the language of one Cornish, D.M., especially when the Unfortunate so deluded into that action makes an attempt at appropriating such singular vocabulary and syntax toward pornographic ends. Ie.  That was a bloody debacle, I am beyond sorry! Cf.  WTF?!  
_ ** 2.** _ Any attempt to allow Sebastipole the chance to leer when Europe is in a mood. (No. Seriously. She refused). _

“I do not think, little man, that you understand the intricacies of your position.”

There were not so many inns available on Sinster’s serrated shores—sleeping, if it was to be done, took place in more intimate, dangerous surrounds—but the Branden Rose, as Rossamünd Bookchild long knew, was not to be denied.

The boy with the girl’s name would not deny terrifying rescue, words flung about the lentumn sharper than shot as they raced through the Idlewilde. Her tinctures and tonics could not be denied, the lahzarine concoctions now an easy extension of thought and limb, staining his skin and keeping his mistress fine and furious in fettle.

His own aching over Threnody’s final, wit-stricken glances, or the predicament of the Lamplighter Marshall, and his own creeping, chilling horror of what his blood, so sudden taken, might in its turn suddenly reveal, could all be denied in the face of Europe’s cocked eyebrow and the fearsome whimsy of her smile. He had been sure, once, that he would give his all to such heroism, and once too he had been sure that he would ever fly stuttering from her bloodthirsty threwd and the simple marks on long, elegant hands. She did not wear him yet, but he was hers—fact, and factotum. And now, laying sprawled on the bed—two of its four posts claiming his wrists—and Europe’s weight upon him, he was sure there was little intricate and everything queer and lovely about his current position.

“Speak up!” Obliging was not, as a rule, part of Europe’s  noblesse oblige , but she did shift her thigh.

“Mistress Europe, I don’t understand.”

Her eyes, hooded for much of this time, snapped. “Clearly. But no matter. ” A laugh, then, more breathy than brittle, and her weight was lifted, Rossamünd’s lungs lifting and the air flashing again from face to groin.  “You tend to take instruction well.”

The fulgar was, the boy thought, glorious as she stood, shifting herself in one long, graceful slide of skin and muscle and scent. Her hair, brassy and freed from its habitual clawed pins, brushed his chest as she leant forward and untied his bonds. Left, then right, she undid; her tongue followed the slick-soft path of her hair, a steady swipe right along the middle of him, as her hand reached up to grasp him by the scruff of his neck in a way that made him cry out, soft and bare-echoed and stunned by happy outrage.  “On your knees now, little man. And you shall pay attention.”

She moved him as he spoke, and her fingers were charged, ever slightly, ever subtly, so he twitched and gathered and groaned, the sparks brief heat turned to long aching through his blood and groin. Cords circled about his wrists once more, close this time and behind him, so small as his weight was, his knees still shuddered and creaked from the completeness of it. As this much bondage, he turned his head to gaze upon her, only to find his eyes fast shut at the scrape of her nails along his jaw. “Almost, little man,” she whispered. “I had not done enjoying my work, yet.”

Europe writhed against his back, his spine meeting strange softness of her breasts, heat and slick wetness now pooling down him to collect in intimate places and cause one constant blush. More of her laughter. “Miss Europe!”

“Ah, you are a wretched child.” Hands in his own hair, her lips and teeth against his neck, and one hand close over a tight patch of seething taut skin that was never close enough, though the touch had him yearning for what the lazhar had only lately begun to teach.  Air, as she pulled away from him, cut cold and over-clear.

“Now, little man. Attend me.” She was before him anon, sprawling at ease against the number of pillows Europe appeared to consider crucial to any off-road sojourn, as sweetly flushed as her botanical epithet, though no fabulist had ever dared conjure her so bare as he saw her now.   Never , not even the most lurid of such characters could be despicable enough,  could they use their pens to shape her as her legs spread before him, and her hand came down and she eased two fingers into her with an audible sucking sound, wet and depraved. She laughed: a throaty, tintinnabulous shiver in the unfamiliar room.

“This, as you are growing well aware, is my cunt, is it not?”

“Y-yes, Miss Europe.”

“Of course it is. You have become well acquainted therein.”  A smirk, deepened as Rossamünd leant forward, near losing his balance in the process. She gleamed with sweat and didacticism.   “But not, I think, quite enough.

He was mesmerised. Entranced. Enthralled. Words tripped and repeated across his brain as she withdrew her fingers, parting swollen lips with them as glistening traces of herself threaded out between each tip and caught the light. Her thumb brushed that swollen part of her she had once likened to his own cock—“only even prettier, little man”—and she seemed to roll upwards and against herself, colour deepening, hauteur sweetening into something ephemeral that snatched at his beating heart.  

“As with all good things,” she murmured, “Not all attention ought to be paid to the clitoris at once. There is far more to enjoy, and more slowly. But sometimes—” her throat arched back in a sinuous curve, and the boy Rossamünd cried out as she did, as he tried to see all and could not, blood straining faster through him as her fingers quickened and stroked and sometimes seemed to pinch—“A girl just needs  release .” She now held herself open with one hand as the other moved upon her, and her voice was a cracked, almost chiming thing as she grinned at him, teeth bright in her flushed and beautiful face. “You’re hard just  looking  at me, little man,” she observed. “Though I don’t—uh—no whether I should strike you or  kiss  you for proving my own words such— oh —a delightful misnomer.”

“Please, Miss Europe...”

“ What , Rossamünd?”

“Show me. I beg you. Keep showing me.”

A third, a final time, she cried out, and the boy with a girl’s name and no hands for his own use felt it through him like a knife—coming, untouched, over both of them.

There was utter silence.

“You know, little man,” Europe’s voice came at him as if from far away. “I’m afraid I shan’t be able to resume the lesson until you have licked all of that up.”

A factotum’s life, so Rossamünd Bookchild had learned, was undeniably a strange and glorious thing.


End file.
